The Dark Reaches of the Night
by coloradoandcolorado1
Summary: While in the middle of a drug-induced haze, Sherlock witnesses a murder, but in the clear light of day, he isn't sure what he really saw. When he's accused of committing the crime, Sherlock struggles to get sober long enough to clear his name and repair the relationships he has destroyed before the ones he loves become the real killer's next targets. A Sherlolly mystery.
1. Prologue

1. No copyright infringement intended.  
>2. Set six months after "Overkill."<br>3. Inspired by Rear Window.  
>4. My Mary Morstan is not the same character seen on S3 of BBC Sherlock.<br>5. Thank you, Emma Lynch, for giving me the push to write this.

~s~s~s~s~

_Prologue_

It was a lovely shade of green, like the first grass of spring blended with absinthe in a crystal bottle. John Watson remembered how it brought out the golden flecks in her soulful brown eyes. He had wanted to compliment her on the dress in the hopes of seeing one of her rare smiles, but that's the moment when everything had gone so terribly wrong.

Now he would never have the chance.

He could barely see the green anymore, the blood was gushing so fast. Too fast. Warm and sticky, it soaked through the delicate fabric and dripped onto the upholstery. No matter how quickly he applied pressure to one wound, another would spurt. It was as if her abdomen had been aerated.

Sweat beaded John's brow as he worked to keep her alive. His frontline experience in Afghanistan had schooled him in containing his emotions, and he was good at it. Hell, he had taken out a serial killer standing in another building without so much as blinking. Nerves of steel. But as he looked into Molly Hooper's alabaster face, the enormity of what had happened—to Sherlock, to her, to all of them—over the last six months sucker-punched him. He had no words, just his heart pounding, his body trembling.

"Jesus, Mary, drive faster!" he shouted.

Curling his hand over her forehead, John braced Molly against him as his wife took the next corner hard. As soon as the car had righted itself, he placed two fingers on Molly's carotid. His heart sank.

"You're going to be fine, Molly, _please_."

She roused a little then, moaning in pain.

"That's it, stay with me, Molly," he whispered into her ear. "You did such a good job tonight. You were so brave."

Her head lolled to the side, then jerked back suddenly, hitting him hard on the chin. Her legs shot out at an awkward angle, and she began convulsing.

"No, no, no, come on. Shhh, shhh. Don't do this, don't do this," he chanted, struggling to hold her and keep her from bleeding out.

"John?" Mary called from the front seat. He could tell she was crying. "What's happening?"

His eyes blurred as frothy pink foam bubbled at the corner of Molly's mouth. It couldn't end like this, her dying in his care. She was too important to him and to Mary. And Sherlock? If he did come back to them—and John wasn't kidding himself about the odds of that actually happening—Molly's death would kill him.

_No. This won't happen. Not on my watch._

John gritted his teeth. He wouldn't lose her. And by God, he wouldn't lose Sherlock either.

"Tell me!" Mary pleaded.

John's resolve hardened.

"Just get us there."


	2. Chapter 1 Memories

I'll remember this moment forever.

_Sherlock frowned. While he didn't often have illogical thoughts, he abhorred them, especially ones that came unbidden and served no purpose. It didn't happen often, but when it did, it unsettled his senses. Shaking his head slightly, he turned his attention back to Molly. _

"_It's snowing!" _

_Happiness enveloped her as she threw her arms up to the sky. A stray shaft of sunlight glinted off the long braid that ran down her back as she lifted her face to the white canopy. "It's Christmas morning, and it's snowing! Isn't it perfect?"_

_He wanted to explain that it was unsound thinking to claim perfection could be found in snow flurries on one particular December morning, but the sight of her made him hold his tongue. Lacey flakes dusted her lashes as she extended mittened hands to him. _

"_Join me." _

~s~s~s~s~s~

Everything around Sherlock Holmes was now permanently out of focus, an understood and accepted side effect of the cool rush he had just pushed into his vein. Double vision, sometimes triple, had become his new normal, but when he closed his eyes, the memory of Molly Hooper was painfully sharp. He could see the smattering of freckles on her flushed cheeks and the stray fibers of her fraying wool scarf as clearly as if she stood before him.

"_Join me."_

Her voice, her smile, her unconditional love for him—a captured image etched in glass that brought him comfort. And unbearable pain. Sherlock groaned, willing the drugs to take effect faster.

"Don't go," he mumbled as the wintery scene melted away and the blurry form of Wiggins took shape.

"Shezza? You say something?" The tall man had folded himself in half to be eyelevel with the consulting detective as he lay on the couch.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock pushed himself into a sitting position.

"Your door was open."

Sherlockly keenly noticed the bulge in the younger man's coat pocket. "Is that . . .?"

"No," Wiggins snapped. "I'm not bringing you nothing like that no more. Your landlady said never to darken her door if I had it with me." He added in a hushed tone, "She scares me."

"She's one to talk. Mrs. Hudson used to run a cartel!" Sherlock shouted as loudly as he could, but he didn't expect her to answer. She hadn't spoken to him in weeks.

Wiggins stood and headed for the kitchen as if he owned the place. "Besides, I don't want to see Dr. Molly upset no more. And John said he'd break my arm for real if I ever brought you anything again."

"A lot of use you are," Sherlock grumbled, slumping down into the cushions again. He listened as Wiggins rummaged through the cabinets. "Then why are you here?"

"Brought you something—just not what you think. Got anything to eat? Holy mike, what is that smell? When did you last go to the shops?"

"I don't go out, remember?" Sherlock airily gestured in the direction of his bad leg.

"You do so go out. You go to that flophouse where we met. Seen you there just the other day." Apparently giving up on the idea of food, Wiggins dropped ungracefully into John's old chair, sending a cloud of dust into the air. "Shezza, you know what I observe?"

"There's no telling."

"You're on an eight-percent solution today."

Sherlock ignored him. "Did you run afoul of some of your customers, Billy?"

Wiggins touched the purple bruise that stretched from his cheekbone to his eyebrow. "Nah, new dealers moving into our area. Guess they want more territory. It's getting dangerous, so I'm getting out of it. I'm done."

"No, you aren't," Sherlock predicted, closing his eyes. Immediately the image of Molly popped up on the giant screen inside his mind. It was too sharp, too painful.

_Join me._

He forced his eyes open. "So what is it?"

"What is what?" Wiggins furrowed his brow.

Sherlock struggled to make his thoughts become words. "You said you brought me something. What is it?"

"This." Wiggins tossed a newspaper that hit him squarely in the chest. "St. Bart's is getting a lot of money, and Dr. Molly is the reason why."

~s~s~s~s~s~

Mary Watson's alarmed cry rose above the din of well-mannered cocktail party conversation. Dropping his highball on the nearest server's tray, John Watson rushed toward the sound of his new wife's voice, his forceful bark of "excuse me" parting the crowd.

Brushing past an older woman, he stumbled upon his bride of four months on his right and a disheveled man in a dirty white shirt on his left. Glancing over Mary's shoulder, John spied Molly Hooper crouched over another man splayed out on the floor. Mary had positioned herself in front of them. Only an hour earlier she had said how excited she was to wear the dress he had bought her on their Paris honeymoon, but John could tell she was ready to pounce as if she were in her Taekwondo uniform.

John protectively stepped in front of his wife and faced the assailant.

"Leave. Now." The doctor's authoritative tone was deceptively calm.

The man sneered. "Or what? What will you do? What?"

Although he stood a head shorter, John had the element of surprise on his side. In a split second, he twisted the man's arm behind him and was giving him the bum's rush out of the room, Mary at his heels. The doctor hustled him down a short flight of stairs and through the revolving front door. With a slight push, John propelled him forward.

"I don't want to see you here again!"

Breathless, Mary stood at John's side as they watched the man stalk down the busy sidewalk without giving them a backward glance.

A flustered Molly Hooper was helping a man John recognized as Evan Kincaid to his feet as the Watsons reentered the boardroom.

"Mr. Kincaid, I am so sorry," Molly stammered.

A short man with thin, pale goatee, Kincaid fumbled to put back on his rimless glasses. "I want that man arrested!"

Near tears, Molly threw John a beseeching glance.

"Mr. Kincaid, is it? I'm John Watson—we met before the presentation?" John plastered a genial smile on his face. "May I be of assistance?"

Looking him up and down, Kincaid slid his jaw side to side gingerly. "Thank you, I'm all right."

"That's right, Evan, no harm done," said an older gentleman who approached with polished black walking cane. "Forgive me for eavesdropping, Dr. Hooper."

"Hello, Mr. Fitzsimmons. This is Dr. John Watson and his wife, Mary Morstan." Molly's fake cheerful tone wasn't convincing. "John, Mary—this is A. J. Fitzsimmons, St. Bart's development director."

"Where are the police?" Kincaid demanded in such a high-pitched whine, John had a hard time taking him seriously.

"Evan, can't you see you're upsetting Dr. Hooper?" Fitzsimmons chided him.

Molly flushed. "Again, I am so sorry Mr. Kincaid."

"Don't worry, Dr. Hooper. If one of my shipmates didn't end up out cold on the floor when we were on leave, it wasn't considered a good party." Fitzsimmons laughed jovially. "What say you, Dr. Watson? You have the look of a military man."

John nodded absently, his focus on Molly. Her chestnut brown hair, which had been loosely pinned up for the event, now tumbled unevenly over her shoulders.

"Were you in Iraq, Dr. Watson? Afghanistan?" the older man continued, unawares. "I served in the Falklands. _HMS Sheffield_."

"That was a bad business," Mary said politely.

"A bum hip is my souvenir, but I survived. You always need to look on the bright side," he said. "Now why don't we go get a drink, Evan?"

"Yeah. OK." The shorter man shifted uncomfortably as Fitzsimmons pointed toward the open bar. As soon as they were out of earshot, Molly whirled to face John.

"Where is he?"

"Don't worry." Mary rubbed her friend's arm. "He's gone. We watched him until we couldn't see him any more."

Her dark blue suit slightly askew, Molly slumped like a balloon with the air let out of it. "I can't do this anymore."

John traded a worried glance with his wife. Molly had been through so much. They all had.

"Molly, this is your day. This whole party is to thank you for the hard work you completed . . . in trying circumstances," Mary said. "Let's get back to it."

"That's right." John placed his hands gently on her shoulders. "You've achieved a lot, and we are proud of you."

He hadn't expected her to smile. She didn't do that much anymore. Instead, she tossed her head back, tears glistening in her eyes.

"Of course. You're right. There's no need for the party to stop. He's gone now." Looking longingly toward the door, Molly added, "Sherlock is gone."

~s~s~s~s~s~

Mycroft spoke first.

"Did you ascertain why my brother felt compelled to coldcock this man?"

John shook his head. "I didn't see it happen, but Mary did. All she could come up with is Kincaid had his hand on Molly's elbow and was leaning in to speak to her."

"So, my brother crashes a reception honoring Dr. Hooper, then devolves into a Neanderthal? 'Don't touch my woman'?" Mycroft's attempt at an ironic smile fell short.

"Something like that." John absently stirred his coffee. "Mr. Kincaid—the man Sherlock punched—had just presented the ceremonial check from his foundation."

Mycroft let a small sigh escape his lips. "I had rather hoped Sherlock would have learned his lesson after the scene he made at your wedding."

The pair sat in a booth at a nondescript café near John's office. It was unseasonably warm for late May, and the waitress fanned herself rhythmically with a takeaway menu. It was the day after the disastrous reception, and Mycroft had texted him to meet. How he had learned what had happened, John didn't know. He could only assume whatever surveillance he had arranged for his younger brother had reported that John tossed his best friend out of the foundation offices.

"When did you see him last?" John asked.

"At that ridiculous intervention you held." Mycroft sniffed.

"At least I tried." John bristled. "As far as I can tell, you haven't done anything."

Mycroft's eyebrows raised a fraction. "You forget, doctor, I've been down this road before, although I had hoped things would be different this time because of Dr. Hooper."

"When he fired the first physical therapist you hired, I chalked it up to Sherlock just being an arse. He was so difficult after he came home from hospital," John remembered sadly.

"His catching pneumonia hadn't helped matters," Mycroft said.

John watched the waitress finally put down the menu and pour a glass of water, which she quickly drank. "After he let the fourth one go, I found out she had caught him taking extra pain pills."

"I know all of this, doctor." Mycroft impatiently signaled for the check.

John continued in his memories as if he hadn't heard the elder Holmes brother. "At first he avoided me. When I did finally catch him in that flophouse, he denied he was using again. Then he rationalized his behavior, justified it even, because of his leg pain. He's lying to himself about the gravity and the absolute absurdity of his addiction."

"He's an addict. That means he lies," Mycroft said. "You've witnessed a few minor slip-ups in the past, but this time he has fully succumbed."

The two men sat in silence until John spoke again. "Are your parents sticking to their bottom lines?"

Mycroft paused. "Both of my parents have a soft spot for him, especially my mother; however, she can't abide stupidity on any level. My father can't abide anyone who causes my mother pain. So, yes, they will stick to their bottom lines."

"What about you?" John held Mycroft's steely stare. "Will you stick to yours?"

"I will do whatever it takes, even if that means cutting him out of my life forever." The flash of pain behind the stiffly proper man's eyes made John feel sorry for him—until he made his next comment. "We all have to present a united front. Is Dr. Hooper really keeping her promise to not speak to him?"

"She didn't tell Sherlock about the reception, if that's what you're implying," John retorted. "He must have learned her research is the reason St. Bart's received that grant. It wouldn't take a consulting detective to deduce there would be some kind of reception to acknowledge her. He found out where and when and showed up uninvited."

Mycroft slid out of the booth, draping his unnecessary umbrella over his arm.

"Undoubtedly. These are trying times, but we must wait until Sherlock decides he wants to get help."

Lost in a fog of memories, John remained sitting long after Mycroft had left, stirring his now-cold coffee.


End file.
